Traitor and the Tunnel (8 page)

“My mistake.” She shut the drawing-room door and plunged down the stairs. She ignored Mrs Vine’s smug expression. Ignored, too, James’s voice cal ing after her down the stairs. She clattered out of the door and into the square, forgetting her umbrel a once again. Luck was with her, at long last: an unengaged hansom clipped by.

A moment later, she was Palace-bound. Ten minutes to cry in peace.

And then she would never cry over James Easton again.

Seven

Monday, 13 February

Buckingham Palace

Amy Tranter took so long over her morning toilette that she was late for prayers – a grave offence under Mrs Shaw’s regime. For punishment, she was sent outside to beat rugs with Mary. In Mary’s view, performing this task was a boon – even if the air was far from fresh, it was pleasant to be out of doors and away from the constant domestic clatter. But Amy’s round, pretty face was creased and sulky even while she fetched her pattens. It wasn’t until they were in the courtyard, however, with a large Persian rug draped over a washing-line, that Mary learned why.

“Is any of my hair showing?” demanded Amy, patting at her three inches of exposed face. The rest of her head was shrouded in a huge cap she’d pul ed down to cover her ears and eyebrows.

“Only your eyelashes.”

“What about my dress?” This, too, was entirely swathed in a dust-wrapper that went from neck to ankles. Combined with the pattens – wooden blocks strapped to her boots to raise her clear of the mud –

Amy looked like a hot-air bal oon about to take flight.

“Can’t see any of it,” said Mary.

Amy remained unappeased. “The usual work’s dirty enough, but this is horrible. I’l be grey with dust in two minutes.”

“We’l be done by dinnertime, and then you can have a wash.” Something about Amy’s expression made Mary pause. “Unless … you have other plans?”

Amy flushed and beckoned Mary to her side of the carpet. “I can trust you, can’t I?”

“Of course.”

“I’m expecting … somebody … a cal er.”

“Here?” Domestic discipline was strict, and while letters and parcels were unrationed, staff were certainly not al owed to entertain guests.

“It ain’t certain, mind.”

Aha. “Mr Jones?”

Amy flushed and squirmed. “Maybe.”

“Oh, come on,” teased Mary. “He’s al you talk about.”

“That ain’t true!” squealed Amy, but she looked pleased despite her words. “Did I show you what he give me?”

“You know you didn’t.”

Amy glanced about in a conspiratorial fashion –

total y unnecessary, as they were quite alone in the service courtyard. Opening her dust-wrapper, she plunged a hand into her dress and drew out a long silver chain. On it dangled a heart-shaped locket, from which protruded a few wisps of mousy hair.

“Ain’t it beautiful?” she whispered reverently.

Mary had her own opinions about heart-shaped lockets crammed with hair, but she smiled anyway.

“Very sentimental. It looks as though things are serious with your Mr Jones.”

“D’you think so?” asked Amy with eager pride. “I do, but sometimes I can hardly believe it’s al real.

And listen, tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day. I want one of them big, beautiful Valentines – you know, with real lace and feathers – and that’s just the start.”

“Are you going to see Mr Jones tomorrow evening?”

Amy made a face. “I asked Mrs Shaw for an hour’s leave – to see my mam, I said it was – but she wouldn’t say until tomorrow. I think she suspects.”

Mary smiled very slightly. “I suppose everybody wants to go and visit their mother on Valentine’s Day.”

“But we’l see. Al ’s not lost, even if she don’t give me leave.” Amy nodded and gave a sly wink.

“How d’you mean? You’ve worked out a way to slip out at night?”

But Amy only smiled and winked again.

“Wel ,” said Mary, for this was the time to turn the conversation in the direction she needed, “if you want a bit of time in the day, you’ve only to say. I could dust the drawing rooms for you, and the like.”

Amy was responsible for cleaning the Blue Room –

the one from which the original figurines had gone missing. So far, Mary had managed passing glances in the daytime and a careful night-time inspection, but it was possible that a leisurely cleaning session by gaslight would yield useful information.

Amy’s eyes sparkled. “You’re a dear. I don’t mind tel ing you I’ve high hopes for tomorrow…”

“And so have I, my darling,” purred a new voice.

Male. Smooth. Educated. And naggingly familiar.

Both Mary and Amy jumped at the interruption, although their reactions were entirely different. Amy squealed and grabbed at her bonnet, whisking off the frumpy dust-covers as fast as her shaking hands would al ow. Mary, however, went very stil . Then, with a grim feeling of certainty, she turned slowly towards the voice. There, smirking at her, was Amy’s Mr Jones: a green-eyed man of middle height, neither fat nor thin, neither handsome nor ugly. He wore a badly pressed suit. Nothing about him seemed likely to inspire squeals of delight or stunned silence, and yet he had done just that.

Mary had first met Octavius Jones, gutter-press journalist and incorrigible busybody, while she was working at St Stephen’s Tower. Admittedly, he’d been a smal help to her towards the end of the case. But he’d also been the only person to see through her disguise as twelve-year-old “Mark Quinn” and unless she was much mistaken, he’d not let that drop now. Jones was a shameless liar who’d not hesitate to sel his mother for tuppence profit, and boast about it afterwards. Needless to say, he was also the last complication she needed on a case such as this.

At the sight of Mary, his face twisted with surprise

– but only for an instant.

“Tavvy!” Amy leapt across the narrow space and planted a row of enthusiastic kisses on his face. “I ain’t expected you for ages!”

He flinched at the nickname but soon recovered. “I couldn’t wait to see you, my dear.” “Tavvy” accepted Amy’s attentions rather in the manner of a man tolerating the ecstatic licking of a puppy, and his eyes were fixed upon Mary the whole time.

“You say the sweetest things!” cooed Amy.

“Darling, aren’t you going to introduce me to your little friend?”

Amy’s voice quivered with pride as she made the introductions. “Mary, this is Mr Octavius Jones; Mr Jones, this is Mary Quinn, who started as a housemaid in the new year.”

Mary dropped a very slight curtsey. “A pleasure, sir.”

Jones’s eyes were now alight with mischief. “The pleasure’s al mine, Miss Quinn. Amy did tel me there had been some changes to the staff in recent months. And if it’s not too forward of me, I must say that you look terribly familiar. Where could I have met you previously?”

Beside him – under his arm, rather – Amy stiffened. “I’m sure you can’t have met before.”

Mary sighed inwardly. It was no more than she expected of him; he was constitutional y incapable of leaving wel alone. But it was infuriating nonetheless.

“I can’t imagine. Might you be mistaken, sir?”

“I doubt it; I’ve an excel ent memory for faces –

especial y features as intriguing as yours. So exotic…” He al but smacked his lips. “Have you, by any chance, foreign blood?”

“Quinn is an Irish name, Mr Jones.” She swung her broom in a larger arc than necessary, nearly grazing his knees. His wide grin at this far-from-subtle gesture only annoyed her more.

“Anyway, it’s lovely to see you now,” said Amy, with brisk determination. “I’m sure Miss Quinn won’t object to our taking a brief strol .”

“Of course not, Amy. Take as long as you like.”

Jones hesitated. “It does feel unkind, though, Miss Quinn, to leave you slaving here al on your own.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Tavvy,” said Amy, trying to keep her good temper. “Miss Quinn doesn’t want to play gooseberry.”

“Certainly not,” agreed Mary. “I wish you good morning, Mr Jones.”

Amy tugged on his arm, trying to draw him away, but Jones held his ground. “You do look so very familiar… Are you quite sure we’ve not met before?

Or perhaps you’ve a sister, or even a brother, who looks like you.”

“London’s a large town, Mr Jones. There must be dozens of women who look just like me.”

“That I refuse to believe. Never mind, it’l come to me in time,” he promised with a cheerful wink. “You just see if it doesn’t.”

Mary found it very difficult not to bring her broom down on his head. “Good-day, Mr Jones,” she said in her frostiest tones.

He final y permitted Amy to drag him away. But as they reached the service gate that led into the parks, he glanced back at her just for a moment. He mouthed a sentence: “See you soon.”

She didn’t doubt it for an instant.

Eight

That afternoon, as Mary approached Her Majesty’s private drawing room carrying a tea tray, the first thing she heard beyond the improperly closed door was the Prince of Wales’s voice, raised high in a querulous whine. “I tel you again, I cannot remember exactly what happened, Mother!”

The Queen’s voice was cold and precise and quiet. “You were there. The dead man was your friend. You were surely concerned for his safety.

Why can’t you remember, Edward?”

“Because … because…” Prince Bertie, as he was known to the servants, heaved a sigh. “Because I was blind drunk, Mother, and – and – hysterical. I was screaming like a woman, because I was so afraid. There. Are you happy now?”

“I am far from happy, Albert Edward Wettin.”

“It was a figure of speech, Mother.”

“I am aware of that. I am appal ed to discover that my son and heir is not only a sot but a hysterical coward.”

Sul en silence.

“You must try harder to remember. It is al there, in your brain.” She paused. “Even such a mind as yours.”

The Prince made an explosive sound. “For the love of God, Mother!”

“I do love my God, Edward. Your behaviour, however, suggests that you do not love yours as much as you ought.”

“Oh, what is the use in trying to talk to you?!” The Prince’s words were so anguished that Mary felt a moment’s pity. Spoilt and selfish as he was, he was in an impossible position.

“How dare you speak to me like that? I am doing my best to shelter you from the consequences of your own actions! I desire only to protect your good name, spare you the shame of public exposure, eliminate the anxiety of your testifying publicly – and you would speak so to me!”

A long silence. Mary dared not set down the tray, dared not move or even draw a deep breath. “Not before the servants” was an ideal, of course, impossible to uphold in a busy and heavily serviced household such as this. But she very much doubted that this particular conversation would have continued had either mother or son realized she was on the threshold.

Final y, Prince Bertie spoke. His voice was weary and contrite. “I beg your pardon, Mother. I shal try to remember what happened.”

“Do your best, my son. It is vital y important.”

Another brief pause. Then the Prince asked,

“Mother, this sailor kil ed Beaulieu-Buckworth. He’l die regardless of what I remember. What does it matter whether it’s a traitor’s death or a murderer’s?”

The Queen’s tone sharpened slightly. “Does it matter to you, Edward?”

“Er – wel … not real y!” An awkward pause. “I mean, yes, I suppose it could. Does, I mean. The truth wil out, and al that… That’s in the Bible, isn’t it?”

There was a long, taut silence. Then the Queen’s voice came again, distant and precise and cold.

“ ‘And ye shal know the truth, and the truth shal make you free’: the book of John, eighth chapter, thirty-second verse. I believe that is the quotation you sought.”

No response.

“You are correct in supposing that whichever is the case, this man wil die. He is a bad man, of course: a violent opium-smoker. But if he is also a traitor, we must make an example of him. An attack on you is, in effect, an attack on this nation. To permit a foreigner to threaten the crown is unthinkable –

especial y a Chinese, in the current state of affairs.”

She paused. “Sift through your memories, Albert Edward Wettin. It is no smal thing to be the future King; to have a hand in laying the path for justice.”

“I… I do not know what to say, Mother.”

“Do you understand what I’ve told you?”

Prince Bertie’s tone was resentful. “Yes!”

“Then there is nothing more to be said.” Her skirts rustled, and Mary heard the Prince scramble to his feet. “I have a headache, Edward. I shal not take tea this afternoon.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“I expect to see you at both supper and at evening prayers.”

“Yes, Mother.”

At the first swish of Queen Victoria’s skirts Mary retreated round the corner, heart pounding furiously.

This was a significant reversal of her earlier position: the Queen was interested not only in the truth of what had happened that night, but in the general ideal of truth! What if the Prince succeeded in remembering something that might clear Lang Jin Hai of the gravest charge, high treason? Would Her Majesty find a way to make that known to the police? Or what if Lang had acted in self-defence, and Beaulieu-Buckworth’s death had been a terrible accident?

Mary’s hopes rose despite her attempts to squash them down. With sufficient evidence, Prince Bertie’s memories could even mitigate Lang’s death sentence.